


work (until your idols become your rivals)

by clairelutra (exosolarmoon)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Corporate, Ballroom Dancing, F/M, Future Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a (failed) attempt at political intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/pseuds/clairelutra
Summary: blame simon!'cause he said you got two lives down and one life leftblame simon!he said you could think better with a hole in your headIn which Marinette is headed straight for the castle, and the old man sitting on the throne just wants to know what the fuck her angle is.





	work (until your idols become your rivals)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinfulpapillon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinfulpapillon/gifts).



> this was like 97% fun and it would've been 200% fun if GABE WASN'T 103% HELL TO WR I T E //grumbles ETERNALLY about cagey old fucks
> 
> anyway g o d b l e s s my friends who took the time out of their days to tell me my gabe voice wasn't too shabby ;v; you guys are awesome ♥
> 
> summary is a reference to [this song](https://youtu.be/adScYCXzuLg) btw o/
> 
> ANYWAY ANYWAY i know we don't talk a whole lot but i'm always happy to see you around and i really hope you enjoy this fic, sinfulpapillon ♥♥♥  
> happy rarepair month?
> 
> (characters ambiguously aged up — my hc is that this takes place about 15 years past canon)

The Annual Paris Charity Ball was held every spring. The venue changed by the year, but it was always held in some place that _looked_ like it cost more than money could buy, but was actually fairly second-rate, as far as Gabriel's experience went.

The decorations boasted things like gold and silver fixtures (plated, mass-produced) and more flowers than were entirely necessary. More often than not, it tried to be a mature, reserved form of ostentatious, and didn't quite fall _flat_ , but never truly succeeded either.

The company, of course...

It was a mixture of young upstarts and old money, all just as likely to fancy themselves snakes in the grass and all just as likely to have tells as obvious as flashing neon signs, if they had any sense of decorum at all.

Gabriel had learned to drink wine and pretend the tannins didn't bother him.

Put simply, it was, more or less, a dick-waving contest.

Thankfully, Gabriel excelled at dick-waving contests, even half-drunk.

The trick was _not_ to walk in like you owned the place (an amateur mistake), but, rather, to walk in like you didn't need to. Smile just so; never quite insult anyone but never pay a sincere compliment either; don't talk up your accomplishments, but treat them as common knowledge; make a beeline for the wine; and watch as the fifty-or-so multimillionaires made buffoons of themselves.

Assuming, of course, that they weren't always buffoons.

Gabriel had his doubts, but the self-help books said that he should always give people the benefit of said doubt, so.

Perhaps an old dog could still learn new tricks.

Still. There was a certain art to smiling at the lot, just enough to make the smart ones feel like idiots for bragging and put fear into the hearts of the dumb ones. The amusement hadn't quite worn off watching whatever upstart trying to one-up him this time falter and flush under his _that's nice, dear_ sip-and-smile.

He needed entertainment, and the drama had gotten old before he'd even started.

There were new faces this year, just as there were every year, and Gabriel watched them, just as he did every year.

There were six of them, most of which weren't particularly notable. He had two pegged as sorry souls that wouldn't last the night, and another three as having about a 50/50 chance of showing up again.

About average, all told.

And then, well...

There was Miss Dupain-Cheng.

Putting a pin in how likely she was to come back was proving to be Gabriel's entertainment for the night.

She'd somehow avoided the amateur mistake of trying to own a room full of young and old money, but, instead of trying to appear beside it all, there was a deliberate sort of submission about her. A flutter of her 'lashes and a sweet smile that never _quite_ rang false — it wasn't a _bad_ strategy, but there was something...

Something that didn't quite line up.

She'd chosen a minimalist-cut dress that seemed to cover her chest and hips only grudgingly, but sensuality was almost ubiquitous as the weapon of choice among the young, and it wasn't particularly at odds with her demeanor, so it wasn't that.

She mingled with those both in and out of her age group with no noticeable preference — that also lined up.

She never seemed to insult anyone, which, while slightly alien, only lent credence to her strategy.

She'd earned her spot on the guest list by a successful new fashion design company (unusual but not unheard of), came without company (unsurprising for an upstart without connections), appeared to be networking with some degree of competency (he supposed she'd had to get successful _somehow_ ), and there was really nothing about her that _didn't_ seem to line up.

And yet...

Gabriel took another sip of the bitter wine in his glass, leaving his mental notes to simmer for a few seconds.

Well.

Maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age. She _had_ won one of his design contests, after all.

How long ago had that been now?

Her laughter, clear and bright, floated across the room, and the hairs on the back of Gabriel's neck stood up.

That... wasn't sentimentality.

That was intuition.

Gabriel set his half-empty glass down on a passing server's tray and moved in.

* * *

He waited until she was done with her conversation to intrude.

"Why, Miss Dupain-Cheng, I didn't expect to find you here," he murmured as he stepped out into her line of vision, watching her move from laughter through surprise to _warmth_ , of all things.

Silly girl.

"Mr. Agreste!" she greeted him, inclining her head with a friendly smile. "I was hoping to meet you today."

Hm.

"Were you," he didn't quite ask, at his most idly, attentively curious.

"Of course!" Another smile, this one shimmering and not as empty as he'd expected, was at the ready as she shifted in his direction, open and conversational. "Who wouldn't?"

She even had the gall to sound like she meant it.

He raised his brows at her with a knowing smile, and she didn't bother to look sheepish.

"I've always admired your work, sir," she said instead, like it should be obvious. "Meeting you here is nothing but an honor."

"I'm flattered," he said mildly, taking care not to sound like _he_ meant it in the least. "You earned your spot here, though, I'm sure."

An irritatingly honest grin, a preening roll of the shoulders. "Oh, I hope so," she said with relish.

...Well, openness could be its own weapon, he supposed. Not a good one for this battlefront, but combined with her knack for compliments it could earn her some allies, however temporary.

She wouldn't last long.

Sad. He'd almost wanted to see her come back.

"So I hear you've got a contract in Dubai, Miss Dupain-Cheng," he said, pushing the conversation into other straights, determined to get a feeling for her before his chance was through. "Congratulations. That couldn't have been easy."

Not least because he'd been trying to get it for his own reasons.

Something still didn't _quite_ line up, but as long as she wasn't coming back, it didn't matter much, he supposed.

* * *

"Hey, you wanna dance?"

She was three glasses in and faking drunkenness, and Gabriel was starting to marvel at her talent in using a thousand words to say nothing at all.

She wasn't half as open as she'd first appeared, and she, like him, used conversation to coax information out of her partners. Her approach might have been more gushing than his, but it was certainly no less effective. Talking to her was like trying to pop a teething toy.

Gabriel was starting to think she might stick around this scene after all.

Now, whether that was actually a _good_ thing...

"I'm afraid I'm a bit old for dancing, Miss," he demurred as he swirled his wineglass and turned the utter _lack_ of information over in his mind.

He'd tried guilt, he'd tried interest, he'd tried approaching from different conversational angles — he'd even sunk to trying _compliments,_ and her only response was to blush and stutter like a schoolgirl.

Were he younger (or, admittedly, just a little less frustrated) it might have been flattering.

As it was...

She was better at this than he'd thought.

And yet...

And yet.

There was _still_ something about her that just _didn't line up._

Miss Dupain-Cheng flapped her hands dismissively, batting her tellingly clear blue eyes at him. "Please? Just one _little_ dance?"

He shot her a quelling glance, not particularly in the mood to indulge these... _shenanigans._

She was unaffected.

"C'moooon," she wheedled, with a too-wide grin and a pose he guessed was to show off her assets. "Do it for me?"

...Was that supposed to entice him?

She gestured, broad and sloppy. "Oh! Or, you know, if not for me, then for little-me?"

...What?

"...'Little-you,'" he echoed flatly, and then rebuked himself for stooping to her level.

 _Really_ , though.

"Teenager me," she said, like that would clarify something for him. She reached for a fourth wineglass and Gabriel resisted the urge to swat it out of her hands. "She hero-worshiped you, you know."

Which was funny, because Gabriel had a rather different set of memories from that time in their lives.

(Tiny girlchild Ladybug effectively turning an entire city against him in less than a minute, for one.

 _Ugh._ )

There were people watching them now, hiding their whispers between their hands, and Gabriel debated the pros and cons of appearing to encourage her.

He could rebuff her, let the failure sit on her reputation. He didn't doubt she could earn or lose sympathy as she wished with that, though it might lose her some measure of irreparable respect with a few in the crowd.

Or he could accept her, and let the rumors fly to the same effect.

Hm.

"Please, mister?" she repeated, breathy and pouty and laying it on _entirely_ too thick, but...

Well.

It had been a while since his life had had any excitement, he supposed.

"For her, then," he said, trying not to let his distaste for the words show.

(Ladybug had been _very_ irritating. The thought of doing _anything_ for that little asshole _punk—_

Well. Those were old grudges.)

She knocked back her fourth glass of champagne and delicately laid her hand in his proffered one, and he led her to the dance floor.

It was sparsely populated, the band playing something old and classical and waltzy and the low lighting attempting to promote an atmosphere of intimacy. He and Miss Dupain-Cheng were glanced at and then worked around as they both got their bearings.

With a new flash of annoyance, Gabriel realized that there was nowhere decent on her person that he could put his hands without touching her skin — the dressmaker had evidently been very dedicated to showing off as much of her skin as decorously possible.

Well. He'd live.

He found her watching him with something that might have been anticipation, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up again.

...Trap?

Quietly, without hesitating too much, he rested his hand high on her hip, feeling warm, supple flesh under his hands and feeling just a little bit older for it.

She only pouted at his lack of reaction to her ridiculous state of dress.

Breathing a little internal sigh of relief, he guided them into a simple waltz...

And found the piece that didn't line up.

He finally put together what had been nagging at the back of his mind all night.

The dress wasn't cut to show off her breasts or hips or thighs, no.

It was cut to show off her veritable _tapestry_ of corded muscle.

Oh.

Every inch of his skin was lighting up in some kind of instinctual, visceral awareness; he didn't doubt that she could toss him across the room without much effort at all if she really wanted to, and, reluctantly, he was forced to admit that that demanded its own brand of animal respect.

Miss Dupain-Cheng might be beautiful and soft and sweet — but she was made of _braided steel._

And that was it. That was her in.

Be soft and sweet and submissive as she could possibly be, but wear her body like a _threat_ and let the lugs trip themselves up over the contrast.

And he hadn't seen it. He hadn't seen it because he'd been expecting an ex-superhero to be in shape.

What an _idiot._

Well. At least he finally had her angle figured out. It was a useless sort of threat in the long run, but might give her—

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Simply that there's an interesting turnout this year," said Gabriel, still half in his head.

"Yes," she said, "to be honest, I didn't expect you to be here."

Oh?

"I was expecting you to be in Dubai."

...Ah.

Long years of practice kept Gabriel from showing any particular emotion, but on the inside, it felt like she'd poured ice down his spine.

Because there was no way she'd know he'd been fighting for that contract unless her research had been very, _very_ thorough.

 _Worryingly_ thorough.

"Oh?" was all he said aloud. "I can't imagine why. Wasn't that _your_ contract?"

It was starting to occur to him that her smile looked... _sharp._

"Contract?" she echoed, smile mellowing and eyes glitter-bright. "Oh, right. That."

"Forgetting your responsibilities already, Miss?" he murmured, his spine prickling cold. "How irresponsible."

She hummed, spinning out in time with the rest of the dancers, flawlessly balanced on shapely legs and five-inch heels, and twisted back into his arms like water, braided-steel body pressed against his front.

"My bad."

It felt like a knife held to his throat.

(—the almost unnerved looks of the smart ones as they walked away from her; the almost-edges in that bright, girlish laughter; the way she _almost_ tottered in her heels as she walked, but never as she danced — he hadn't had her pinned at all, had he?)

The song picked up, and the dancers with it.

The quicker and more complicated the dance, the smoother she moved, heels clicking lively and sure on the wood like knives on a butcher's block, and Gabriel suspected that she might be drunk after all.

She was forgetting to pretend she was soft.

Knives at his throat and knives at his back, knowing smile tucked under a sheep-mild veneer, too-bright eyes tracking his every move as he struggled to keep up with her pace — it didn't feel so much like playing with fire so much as accidentally swimming bloody into shark hunting grounds. Sinew bunched and smoothed under his hands with a deadly sort of ease, tripping up his already-struggling cardiac system with something that might have been fear, but might _not_ have been, too.

He miscalculated, and now he was paying for it.

He was getting to be too old for this, he couldn't help but think as his hands started to shake with exhaustion and her smile flashed all the brighter for it.

Step in, step out, one, two, three, four. Twist in, twist out, sidestep before she could rip his throat out with her teeth, continue.

The song came to a stop.

"Getting tired, old man?" Miss Dupain-Cheng purred like a cat with a mouse between her paws as he pulled her close again, hot breath slipping under his collar and a single finger hooked in the knot of his tie.

Then she tugged it, just a little, and the faint rasp of fabric zipped through Gabriel's system like _toxin._

He just hummed at his most non-committal, though, face blank. Anything else would be an admission of weakness, and the perspiration he could feel cooling along his hairline was telling enough already.

Slipping.

She released him and stepped away, copying the other people on the dance when she curtsied, and Gabriel followed suit with a bow one beat late.

Slipping.

"Thanks for the dance, Mr. Agreste!" she said as she straightened, bright and cheerful and innocent once again, and he watched the ingenue smile drop over the hunter underneath with something not unlike panic crawling under his skin.

"Of course, Miss. It was my pleasure."

Slipping, slipping, he was _slipping._

"Oh, man, Marinette? Is that _you?"_

The woman in question glanced over his shoulder and beamed. "Clarice!"

Gabriel very, _very_ nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

Miss Dupain-Cheng nodded her leave to him with a smile too simpering to believe and slipped past him, but not before he managed to gather himself enough to murmur, "Good luck in Dubai."

The smile looked a little more real as she said, "Thanks!"

And then she was gone.

...Well.

That was probably more gossip fodder than he'd bargained for.

Standing alone in the crowded room once again, Gabriel pushed the knot of his tie back up with trembling hands and spared a moment to be grateful for his age — it made it much easier not to react when a beautiful woman more-or-less threatened his life.

Putting aside the generic meatsuit follies, it was fairly easy to see that the dance was meant to unnerve him, though for what purpose, he wasn't entirely certain. Simply to let him know she considered herself his rival?

All said, all _he_ knew was simply that she knew that he'd wanted to be in Dubai. It wouldn't do to overreact until he had confirmation of something more sinister—

"Your first charity ball and you're already going for the big money," Miss Dupain-Cheng's socialite friend laughed in the distance. "You're fast, girl!"

Miss Dupain-Cheng sputtered, and when he glanced over at her she was flapping her hands, sunburn flushed. "No, no, no! Nothing like that! We— we're both designers, you know. We were talking shop!"

"'Shop,'" repeated the socialite, amused.

"Yeeeees," Miss Dupain-Cheng dragged out. "He was, ah..."

She looked up and in his direction, and met his gaze with eyes like chips of pure radiation. Her blush faded, her smile widened — _sharpened_ — a single notch, her eyes fell to where his fingers were wrapped around his tie, and then she looked away.

"He was giving me pointers on how to deal with all the moths in Dubai," she said, sheep-smiling like it was nothing. "They're having a big problem with those right now, you know."

Her socialite friend's burst of surprised laughter fell on deaf, ringing ears.

The butterfly Miraculous was in Dubai.

Miss Dupain-Cheng, who'd been Ladybug once upon a long time ago, knew about the Miraculous in Dubai.

Miss Dupain-Cheng, who'd been Ladybug once upon a long time ago, who'd _defeated Hawkmoth_ once upon a long time ago, knew that he wanted the Miraculous that was in Dubai.

Very slowly, Gabriel removed cold, numb hands from his tie knot, away from his pounding heart, and picked up another glass of red wine from a passing server.

...Well.

It looked like it was time to do a little research of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> and because at least two of the three people who pre-read for me asked, here are options for what may have happened to adrien:
> 
> 1) deadrien  
> 2) never-existedrien  
> 3) boinking-nino-and/or-alyadrien  
> 4) ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
